


The Challenge: Demand Satisfaction

by aidennestorm, botanical_mysteries



Series: Too Sensible of My Defects [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Daddy Kink, Dissociation, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Guilt, Incest, M/M, Multi, Parent/Child Incest, Past Character Death, Past Underage, Polyamory, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanical_mysteries/pseuds/botanical_mysteries
Summary: Radically redefining one of the most important relationships in one’s life is much, much easier promised than done— but for his boys, for Gil, George would do anything.(And if he wants it for himself, too, well… that might take a little longer to reconcile.)





	The Challenge: Demand Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has reached out to us, in some form or another, to let us know how excited you were to see this series continue, because we have been DYING to get this finished to share— and now it's here! Please heed the tags and enjoy the ride. <3

They went slowly at first. George had to wrap his head around this, this _thing_ that they’d started, monumental in ways he couldn’t help but compare to the other foundational experiences in his life. Before and after meeting Martha. Before and after losing Martha. Before and after having children.

Before and after he crossed the line he couldn’t uncross.

The second night after the irrevocable shift in their relationship— the night they clung to each other in the kitchen, the night George admitted to the desires he should _never_ have had in the first place— he didn’t know what to expect. Didn’t know if Alex and Gil would ask to join him in bed, or if he should ask _them_. It was a startling, full body rush of relief when Gil took Alex by the hand and murmured, his voice soft but his gaze steady and unflinching, “We’re going to give you space, but that doesn’t change anything. We still want this.” _Want you,_ was left unspoken, and George was grateful that it remained so.

He slept alone. Fitfully, restlessly, and for once the sluggish drowsiness that usually accompanied his nightly antidepressant didn’t come.

It took three more days before George stumbled to bed at 7:30 in the evening, earlier than usual, the recurring nights of inadequate sleep catching up with him, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Alex on his bed— stretched out on his back and looking at his phone, wearing a college t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts, hair down and damp from a shower, his feet bare.

Alex glanced up, and it was only because George knew his son that he knew the nonchalance was feigned when Alex asked, “You mind if I chill out here for a bit?”

George swallowed. Took off his wedding ring and put it in the dish on the bedside table, plugged in his phone, fiddled with setting the alarm until he said finally, “I’m going to bed.”

Alex shrugged. “I don’t care if you don’t. I can amuse myself.”

George forced down the traitorous thought about Alex _amusing himself_ as quickly as it appeared in his head— but even besides that, there was more than a little part of him that was too exhausted to care.

“If you wake me up I’m grounding you for a damn month,” George groused as he grabbed his pajamas and went to the bathroom to change, pretending he didn’t notice the small, pleased grin Alex hid behind his phone.

Two more days, and it was deep in the night, George’s dreams filled with gentle hands and soft curls, tears as sharp as the pain spreading through his chest tracking down Martha’s beautiful face, when a light touch on his shoulder startled him from sleep.

“Fuck!” he hissed, jerking away from the intrusion, fumbling for the bedside lamp. He squinted against the light, seeing only Gil’s tear-stained cheeks, his hair mussed and pillow worn.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, flinching away. “I just… I had a nightmare. Can I…”

 _What about Alex?_ he wanted to ask. _Should_ have asked. But Gil was so devastated and distraught—

And George had promised not to let his boys suffer. Not again.

“Come on,” he sighed; Gil nodded tightly and moved to the other side of the bed before he slipped under the covers, not touching but close enough that George could feel the warmth of his body.

It wasn’t until the light was off that Gil murmured into the quiet. “Thank you.”

Then it was another night, another, the boys leaving before he got up, always so careful not to overwhelm him. It was at the end of week two that George woke up to Gil ready to creep out of bed, and instead of staying silent he whispered, “Stay, please.”

It was careful, tentative embraces before bed— never enough to inspire panic, but longer than something familial. A lingering promise that George couldn’t let himself think too much about, not yet—

Until that same weekend, when he didn’t blink when he handed over his credit card to the salesperson with an extracted promise of same day delivery for his new California king bed, and watched the delivery staff haul away the bed he bought for Martha and shared with her during those final days before she closed her eyes for the last time—

Until he woke up with Gil and Alex on either side of him, snoring softly, and instead of feeling restless just turned over and went back to sleep—

Until he reached for them in the middle of the night, one and then the other, sharing soft, exploratory kisses, his boys’ tongues licking against his own, their soft sighs blowing warmth into his skin—

Until he gradually awoke to the feeling of his lazy morning erection pressed against Gil’s ass, or of Alex’s pressed against him, and for once it wasn’t startling because the master suite was slowly becoming less of his room and more of _their_ room, and not hours before they had all been wrapped around each other, panting heavily, lips swollen from kisses given and received—

And the realization that this was becoming _normal_ was so jarring that he stumbled out of bed alone, leaving Gil and Alex to mumble in protest and roll toward each other, curling up close and intimate.

He was at the dining room table, sipping on the coffee that was supposed to settle his now-anxious stomach (and failing) and trying (and also failing) to focus enough to read the paper, when the boys stumbled in. Alex was groggy and grumpy as always, George’s perpetual night owl, and Gil bright-eyed and cheerful.

“Good morning,” he greeted them, surprised when his voice didn’t crack.

Alex waved a hand at him dismissively, making a beeline for the coffee pot. Gil paused in front of the table, studying him thoughtfully.

“What, Gil?” George asked, unable to decipher the look on his youngest’s face.

Gil swallowed. “Can I… can I kiss you good morning?”

George felt the flush creep over his skin, hot and prickling, his heart suddenly pounding. They didn’t _do this._ They kept their affections in the dark, hidden beneath bedsheets and behind bedroom walls, with the unspoken agreement that nothing would happen outside of that room. But…

There really hadn’t been an agreement after all, just his own assumptions.

And he’d promised he would _try._

“Of course you can,” he agreed, finally.

Gil approached him slowly, like he was some kind of wounded animal— but leaned over and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. When Gil straightened, his smile was unsteady, but genuine. “Good morning.”

George’s breath caught in his chest as he looked at Gil, the blush on his cheeks, his shy, sheepish look. Before his better sense caught up with him, he heard himself asking, “Do you want another kiss?”

Gil nodded eagerly and leaned in again, except when their lips touched George deepened the kiss, gently worrying Gil’s bottom lip between his teeth. Gil moaned, low in his throat, a noise of pure want that went straight to George’s cock. George pulled back abruptly, fighting back the sudden wave of arousal, and managed an equally uncertain but honest smile back at Gil, who was gaping at him, stunned.

“Holy fuck,” he heard from across the room, and glanced over to see Alex staring at them openly, eagerly, with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. His eyes had lost the daze of sleep, and a quick once over showed the sudden interest that Alex’s jeans couldn’t quite hide.

Gil blushed even deeper, ducking his head as he sat down in the chair on George’s left. “It’s not just coffee that gets you _up_ in the morning, huh?”

Alex smirked, taking a seat beside Gil and elbowing him. “You know it.”

George tensed, his hand tightening around his own mug. It was one thing to know of his sons’ prior relationship, to have seen it and overheard it firsthand, but to hear his boys speaking openly and casually in front of him, now, invoking the literal years of history they shared? That was quite another thing, and for a few moments George was lost in his own thoughts, a filthy flash of memory coalescing with fantasy that he quickly shut down before he could dwell too long on the reminder of Gil’s not-so-innocent youth.

The boys kept talking, and George was able to fight past the roaring in his ears in time to hear, “... Abigail said I could help her close tonight and work on my presentation if we’re not busy.”

Alex scoffed. “It’s a Saturday night at a sex shop, Gil. You’ll be lucky if you get home by one am.”

“Abigail runs a family friendly business! She’ll make sure I don’t get stuck with some asshole—”

“Sex shop?” George asked, head spinning.

Alex and Gil both turned to look at him. “Technically we’re an adult store,” Gil said slowly, even as a scowl bloomed across Alex’s face. “But yes.”

“You… work there? You’re barely eighteen.”

Alex’s lips thinned into a tight line. George realized belatedly that this was one of the things he had missed during his absence-of-sorts. He had known Gil was working, was good at his job, well-liked, but had never really asked for details...

“He _is_ eighteen, Dad. Law doesn’t care.”

“You know, at some time that has to stop being an excuse,” George snapped as a spike of helpless irritation lanced through him.

“Is that a joke?” Alex asked, incredulous.

George shrugged, saying shortly, “I don’t know.”

Gil glanced between them for a moment, then sighed. “Alex, aren’t you supposed to be meeting John in twenty minutes?”  
  
_“Fuck.”_ Alex clambered up from the table, coffee mug forgotten. “He’s gonna kill me if I’m late again.”  
  
“It’s ‘cause he liiiikes you,” Gil teased, suddenly breaking into a grin. “He misses every moment he’s away from his sweet Alexander.”

Alex shuddered theatrically. “He’s like a—”  
  
“If the word ‘brother’ is anywhere in that sentence I will _not_ be responsible for the consequences.”

George couldn’t stop staring at them— Jesus Christ, his sons _flirting_.

“You know you’re the only one for me,” Alex said softly, leaning in to give Gil a kiss, one Gil earnestly reciprocated. George forced himself to look down at his coffee cup; it felt intrusive, somehow, to see this. The realization that it might not just be fucking, that they didn’t just love each other, but that they were maybe even _in_ love. But even as it felt voyeuristic, he _wanted_ to see it, and the thought made his throat tighten uncomfortably.

When Alex stood, George saw his gaze flicker to him out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t quite a warning, but wasn’t exactly warm and welcoming either. “You two have fun. I have work after I’m done with John, so I’ll be back later tonight.”  
  
“Have a good day, Alex,” George said quietly, his goodbye the only olive branch he could manage to offer.

Gil blew Alex another kiss. “One for the road!” he exclaimed, while Alex caught it out of midair and stuck in his pocket.

George’s chest ached, sorrow and longing leaving him breathless. _Martha used to do that..._

“You sappy dork,” Alex teased as he rounded the corner, but he was grinning widely. When the door shut behind him, George felt Gil’s eyes upon him.

“He loves you too, you know. Just give him some time.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” George protested, his gaze quickly raising to meet Gil’s, because it was true and Gil needed to _know_. “You two don’t— neither of you owe me anything—”

“Dad,” Gil said softly, cautiously putting his hands over George’s. “He wants to give this to you. We’ve talked about it. He’s just… he’s afraid.”

“Alex? Afraid?” George asked with a wan smile. Gil rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in the gesture, only exasperated fondness.

“How do I even put up with you two,” Gil groaned, getting to his feet. He tugged on George’s hand. “Come on.”

George let Gil lead him over to the couch, felt the warmth and strength of his son’s hand in his. He hadn’t held Gil’s hand like this for years, not since standing over Martha’s fresh grave, his sons’ hands the only thing anchoring him to the earth, away from the desire to sink into the ground and never come out—

“Dad?” Gil asked. By the look on his face, he’d already asked the question more than once. “You all right?”

George nodded tightly. “Fine,” he lied, through the lump in his throat. “What are we—”

Gil clicked the remote on, flicked it through until he found what he was searching for. “You love _The West Wing,”_ he said decisively. “We’re going to sit here and watch a couple episodes and you’re going to relax.”

“I know what Netflix and chill means, Gil. I’m not that out of touch.”

Hurt flashed across Gil’s face. “No expectations,” he said quietly, echoing George’s own words. “Okay? My feelings mean more than that.”

Gil looked distinctly unhappy now, and George lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “Thank you for trying to put me at ease.”

Gil brightened a little and pressed play, squeezing George’s hand before letting him go. He settled on one end of the couch as George took the other, but despite Gil’s initial relaxation he sat rigidly, legs tucked under himself and arms folded. George glanced over at him periodically, and when his posture didn’t ease, ventured, “Gil? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What? No.”

But the response was too quick, so George gestured to him. “You’re… stiff. You don’t hold yourself like this unless something’s going on.”

Gil bit his bottom lip, clearly nervous, but finally spoke. “I… want to be closer to you.” He swallowed, and amended hastily, “But I don’t want _you_ to be uncomfortable—”

“It’s all right,” George interrupted, trying to be reassuring. “Come here.”

He opened his arm and Gil climbed into the crook of his side, curling in close. “Is this okay?” Gil whispered.

“Just fine,” George murmured, enjoying the warmth and weight of Gil nestled against him in spite of the uneasiness that still lingered ever since he first woke. Impulsively, he pressed a kiss to the curls on the top of Gil’s head.

“This is nice,” Gil mumbled, his voice muffled where his face was squished against George’s chest. “Being close like this.”

George hummed in agreement. “You used to do this when you were younger,” he said, unthinking. Realization was swift to follow and he froze, briefly horrified, before Gil nodded.

“I remember. I’m glad we’re doing it again.”

With a suppressed sigh of relief, George relaxed while the television soothed him into a lull, warm and cozy. He idly stroked Gil’s side, let his hands wander gently across Gil’s stomach and torso. But when his hand trailed over Gil’s chest, Gil jerked with a small, surprised cry. “What’s wrong?” George asked, immediately pausing his movements. “Did I hurt you?”

Gil’s voice was tight, tense. “No… but if you do that again I’m going to enjoy it a little too much.”

_Oh._

“Oh,” George said aloud, slowly understanding.

Gil started to sit up with a subdued, “It’s okay, I should probably get to my paper,” when George carefully pushed him back down.

“What if I… _want_ to do it again?”

Gil’s breath caught. “I… yes. If you’re asking, the answer is yes.”

He settled back into George’s side, not demanding or overbearing, just calm and still. It was this that gave George the courage to move his hand along Gil’s chest again, this time more slowly. “Oh,” Gil breathed.

It took a couple of minutes to work himself up to it— throughout all their midnight fumblings, clothes so far stayed on— but finally George slid his hand under Gil’s shirt, dazed by the feel of Gil’s skin on his own, the warmth and the coarse hairs and the unexpected softness. When he allowed his fingers to trail over a firm nipple, Gil moaned. “Yes…”

George returned to it, squeezing just a bit, enough to cause a light twinge. Gil yelped aloud and arched into his hand, a sound and movement that made George want _more_. Before he could talk himself out of it, he carefully switched their positions— adjusted himself on the cushion so his back was pressed against the arm of the couch, spreading his legs so Gil could settle between them, resting his back against George’s chest and his head on George’s shoulder. George slipped both hands under his shirt, tweaking both nipples at the same time.

“Please,” Gil whimpered, sounding lost and needy. He moved his hips, seeking an absent friction, his cock noticeably hard beneath his athletic shorts. _“Please…”_

“What do you want, Gil?” George asked; it was a dangerously open ended question but he couldn’t stop it, had to _know—_

“Whatever you want to give me, yes to all of it, I can’t— oh god, you’re actually _touching me.”_

It was the helplessness in Gil’s voice that destroyed him. That had him reaching down to cup Gil’s cock through his shorts. Gil sobbed, grinding into his hand. “Yes, oh my _god—”_

George swallowed. Steadied himself before he moved his hands under the waistband and touched his son’s cock for the first time.

Gil shouted, a broken, choked cry of, “Dad!” George’s heart beat painfully in his chest, hotter than the warmth of Gil in his hand, deafening in his ears—

“I’ve got you,” he said— he might have said; he couldn't  _think_. “Relax.”

Gil shuddered, his chest rising and falling rapidly, small, sharp gasps falling from his lips. “D-Dad…”

A part of George, that part he should’ve been listening to, felt sick. A spike of nausea rolled through his stomach, at odds with the arousal coursing through his veins.

 _This is your_ son. _What the fuck are you doing?_

But it was hard to listen to that voice when he could feel Gil’s cock in his hand, so hard and hot and already wet with precome. When he could hear him gasping and moaning in his ear.

George slipped his other hand around the waistband of Gil’s shorts, tugged, and Gil lifted his hips to let him slide them off.

“You too,” Gil groaned. He reached back, hands pulling at George’s pajama pants. “Wanna feel you too…”

 _“Fuck_ ,” George hissed, pushing Gil away enough that he could drag his own pants down his hips, freeing his cock. He was already shamefully hard, flushed and leaking. Gil immediately ground back against him and George swore again at the feeling of Gil’s bare ass sliding against his cock. His skin was so smooth and soft and warm, and his mind couldn’t help but wander to thoughts of sliding inside him, of how hot and tight he would be…

He suppressed them as best as he could, focusing instead on rutting against Gil’s ass and stroking his cock firmly.

Gil sobbed, little punched out sounds that set George aflame. He looked down at Gil, at his flushed skin and heaving chest, at his cock sliding through his hand. He was struck again by how _wrong_ this was, at how he should never have seen his own son like this, and yet.

And yet he couldn’t stop. Didn’t _want_ to stop.

 _“Daddy,_ oh my God,” Gil whined, and then froze. “Oh _no,_ I’m sorry, I didn’t, I didn’t mean to say that—”

“Shh,” George soothed, despite the odd way that name twisted in his chest, revulsion and red hot desire twining together. And he couldn’t help but remember Alex’s taunting, _Do you know how hard he came, knowing daddy saw him like that_ _?,_ so really… he should have expected this, but didn’t _see_ it. “Say whatever you want, Gil.”

 _“Oh,”_ Gil gasped, relaxing again.

“That’s it,” George murmured softly, speeding up his strokes, twisting his wrist and rubbing his thumb over the head of Gil’s cock until he was sobbing between his moans.

Gil whimpered, _“Daddy,”_ and shuddered as he came over George’s hand and into his own clothes. Only when the shuddering stopped did George let himself breathe again, shallow and unsteady.

Gil turned around and molded himself to George’s front, burrowing his head into the crook of George’s shoulder. He laced his hand with George’s, slick with Gil’s come, and folded their hands over George’s cock as Gil guided them to stroke him off. It was suddenly overwhelming, having Gil in his arms like this, like he was small again, and his brain was a blank canvas of white noise except words were on his lips like Gil was a child and clinging to him: _Daddy’s proud of you, Gil…_

He barely kept himself from biting Gil’s shoulder as he came unexpectedly soon with a ragged groan over their hands, and with the rush of orgasm came the plummeting of his stomach, the sick realization of what he just _did._

“Dad,” Gil said slowly, cautiously. He shifted slightly, tugging on his own clean shirt, pulling George’s hand into it, and then his own, to wipe it clean. “Are you— what are you thinking right now?” Gil straightened to look him in the eyes. “Please talk to me.”

George could barely speak around the tightness in his throat, but managed to croak, “It’s… a lot.”

Gil’s lip wobbled. “Can I hug you?”

George opened his arms and Gil fell into them, squeezing him tightly. “It’s all right,” George said softly, though he didn’t know who he was trying to convince.

“I know,” Gil whispered. “We’ll be all right, Dad, I promise. No matter what happens. We’ll all have each other.”

George held his son close and wished like hell he could believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find us on tumblr, @aidennestorm and @liese-l. :)


End file.
